


Days On End

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the smoke clears, there's only silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days On End

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in November of 2010.

If the silence hadn't fallen, John might have forgotten Sherlock's words entirely.

They're alive. 

It's more than either of them should have hoped for, but John had known in the instant Sherlock had looked to him for approval that he wasn't alone in the hope that they'd live to tell their story. Sherlock had fired, then, and all hell had broken loose. John prefers not to think about the Yard's crushing losses, or half-dragging an injured Sherlock from smouldering rubble, or the fact that Moriarty had escaped. 

They're alive, and Sherlock hasn't spoken in a fortnight.

He hadn't spoken when they released him from hospital twenty-four hours later, had merely nodded at John when he saw him in the waiting room. His right arm was casted from knuckles to bicep, immobilized further by a sling. He hadn't protested when John had taken his good arm and walked him out the revolving doors.

Sherlock hadn't spoken at Donovan's funeral, either, which had been only three days later. Instead, he'd sat beside John, tight-lipped and pale, his forehead lined. Afterward, he'd set a hand on Anderson's shoulder. Lestrade had tried to intercept them, ask them if they'd come for some food, but John had made their apologies.

The days following had passed in much the same way as before, save for the fact that Sherlock didn't show the slightest inclination towards leaving the flat. Lestrade hadn't called, and, given the state of his arm, Sherlock hadn't even shown much interest in checking his email or in updating his website. John would boot them up for him once a day, at which point Sherlock would take a cursory glance at the screen, nod in thanks, and turn back to the telly or to whatever book he happened to be reading.

Unlike John, Mrs. Hudson had frequently attempted to engage him in conversation. Sherlock had taken to leaving the room instead of just looking at her, as his weary scrutiny had upset her even more than the turning of his back. She'd spend the next twenty minutes asking John if he'd said anything, anything at _all_ , at which point John would shake his head gravely. The truth is, he has his own silence to keep.

Evenings are the hardest, and the only clues he has. At first, Sherlock had seemed to just tolerate him on the sofa, never let on whether he disliked being unable to stretch out and think or not. Not long after, he'd nodded off against John a few times, overwhelmed by boredom and painkillers, his breath soft and uneven against John's temple, his cheek, his neck. Five days after the funeral, he'd been half-awake when it happened, and when he'd jerked in surprise as if to move away from John as quickly as possible, John had put an arm around his shoulders and held him still.

It's evening now, and they're forehead to forehead, television program forgotten.

Sherlock's breath isn't soft this time, but it's uneven. When John parts his lips, he can taste each puff: bitter tea and neglected speech, intermingled. 

Sherlock's eyes are asking him a question.

“I don't mind,” says John, his own voice rough with disuse. “I never did.”

They kiss for a while, without surprise or shame. Sherlock's muffled moan is startling in spite of the telly's chatter. John fumbles for the remote control and turns it off, returning his fingertips to Sherlock's jaw, his throat, his chest. Brushes his curled, stiff right hand midway down, feels Sherlock's lifeless fingers start and grasp at his own. Lets Sherlock's gasp against his hair guide his touch lower, beneath folds of dressing-gown and pyjama bottoms until he can cradle the hardness he finds there gently in his palm and coax more sounds of pleasure from Sherlock's throat.

Later, when they're naked and drowsy in John's bed, Sherlock talks for hours. Even though he's falling asleep by the time Sherlock seems to be winding down, John realizes that it isn't enough. He could listen to that voice through time unending, cling to it like unspooled thread in a labyrinth.

“What were you waiting for?” John asks, gingerly taking Sherlock's reanimated hand. They'll have to tolerate the cast for some months, but it's a small price to pay. 

They're _alive_.

Sherlock says nothing, squeezing John's fingers as they kiss.


End file.
